


prima

by nascar



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Ballet Dancer Hyuck, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Making Out, Massage, hyuck is a pretty ballet dancer and mark is just happy to be here, kind of written about the way that ballet training can be destructive?, theyre russian! thats the fic!, um.. russian au?, volleyball player mark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 20:19:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16647092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nascar/pseuds/nascar
Summary: The boy in the glass is slender and graceful, his limbs reach slight movements and his step is light and springy. Though however graceful he moves, there is something gaunt and broken in the bend of his spine or the hollow of his cheek. He is pretty yes, but pretty in the way a dove looks after the battering of a storm or a broken wing. The last grace of breath of a beautiful thing.(aka hyuck commits his life to a dance that destroys him and mark carves a second place in hyucks heart)





	prima

**Author's Note:**

> i dont know what this is!!! i dont fucking know!!! this isnt even proofread oh my god just take it

Mark doesn’t know why it bothers him so much. The Vaganova Academy of Russian Ballet, that is. With its prestigious arches and wide dancing halls. Well, of course, he knows fair and well the reason the school bothers him, but it seems selfish to admit the reason. 

 

The halls are dedicated to an art that is built on discipline and elegance. An art that tears apart it’s artists from the outside in. 

 

The damage it caused was discernable if only one had to look. A prime example being the boy behind the glass windows, battered and bruised and poised so lovely. 

 

The boy in the glass is slender and graceful, his limbs reach slight movements and his step is light and springy. Though however graceful he moves, there is something gaunt and broken in the bend of his spine or the hollow of his cheek. He is pretty yes, but pretty in the way a dove looks after the battering of a storm or a broken wing. The last grace of breath of a beautiful thing.  

 

The music is choppy and elegant all at once, mimicking the drum of a frantic heartbeat. Mark feels his own heart pulse at the base of his throat when the boy spreads himself wide against the dying sun of a Russian winter. He lands on pointe and swoops low as the last trickle of notes fade out. 

 

When the music ends the boy drops his pose and the tired, worn-out expression rests heavily over his high delicate features. Mark’s breath fogs up the interior of the glass and he steps away to see around the small fog he’d created.

 

The dance instructor descends upon the dancer in a heartbeat, immediately fussing and perfecting. The hands are endlessly pushing and controlling but the voice is tender. The instruction does not halt for the mess of sweaty bangs plastered to the boy’s forehead, nor for the quiver in his calf. The splinters in the grain become revealed and strike hard when the performance is over, there is always much to be finished, to be polished. Much for a bird to break his wings upon. 

 

It doesn’t take long for the class to finish up, finally after four grueling hours. Though, Mark doesn’t mind the wait. The lobby is full of porcelain children with taut figures and eager-to-please smiles. Sometimes they approach Mark shyly to ask him questions about the boy in the glass. Mark smiles over the edge of his  _ biologiya _ book and indulges them with more or less truthful answers. 

 

When Donghyuck finally exits the practice room it is almost seven and Mark decides that seven pm is a wonderful time to fall in love again. 

 

His boyfriend almost disappears in his regular clothes, slim aching body hid beneath the folds of a winter overcoat. His cheeks are red and his eyes are weary but his small hands slip out from under the heavy fabric and pull Mark into him. 

 

“Hello,  _ solnyshko,”  _ Mark smiles, cheek pressed against the younger’s messy hair. 

 

The younger doesn’t dignify Mark with a response but he sighs hot and warm over the collar of Mark’s shirt.

 

A pair of well-worn black slippers hang from Donghyuck’s right arm and his dance bag is slung over the same shoulder. Mark finds him endearing like this, his little dancer. 

 

Finally, Donghyuck tugs Mark out of the lobby and away from all the prying eyes of the younger dancers. And Mark is grateful for it because he can barely contain himself from kissing every inch of Donghyuck’s tired face once they end up behind the closed door’s of Mark’s dorm. 

 

Mark haphazardly discards the wreckage of knee braces and shin guards that litter his bed and replaces them with something infinitely more precious. He lays Donghyuck out against the bed, pushing his bangs off of his face. He unbuttons the younger’s jacket, working sweetly under Donghyuck’s heady, tender watch. He digs beneath the dark folds and tucks of tweed and gossamer until he unearths Donghyuck’s body amongst the wrapping. 

 

Finally, the younger boy is left in nothing but his t-shirt, sweats and an expression that makes Mark’s heart dance lighter than any prima ballerina could. 

 

“M’legs hurts,” Donghyuck mumbles sheepishly, with cheeks that are burning subtly and eyes that have grown fond. 

 

Donghyuck’s legs always hurt. They always will, it’s the life he chose. It was the price he paid for becoming a dream. Nevertheless, Mark takes his cue and sidles his body closer to the dancer’s, pulling Donghyuck’s leg over his own hip and digging his fingers into the aching muscle. 

 

The sound Donghyuck makes is syrupy and Mark feels a pang of heat flare up at his spine. 

 

Still, though, he keeps massaging the tense muscles in the younger boy’s legs, fingers circling around the knots and skimming over the tops of his thighs. Donghyuck’s eyes flutter shut at the movement, soaking up all the attention. It’s funny to Mark how Donghyuck can be granted the largest role in a ballet, all eyes on him, and still only become truly satiated for attention when curled up in Mark’s bed. Mark doesn’t mind voicing that though because although he dances a fine line between safety, he does actually value his life, and Donghyuck won’t hesitate to smite Mark down. 

 

Mark can't help it when he finds himself leaning forward to drop a feverish peck to Donghyuck’s parted lips. He goes to pull away but before he makes it very far the younger boy’s eyes are fluttering open and a slim hand darts out to take a hold of Mark’s jaw. 

 

His fingers stroke tender patterns onto the side of Mark’s face, “d _ usha moya _ ,” he breathes,  _ my soul _ . Then he pulls Mark back into another embrace.

 

This one is a proper kiss, bodies pressed tightly together and lips warm. A flexible leg wraps around Mark’s waist to hold him close to which Mark makes an appreciative noise. 

 

Mark is amazed at the sheer volume of his own heart beating in his ears. Donghyuck’s fingers dig into the muscle at Mark’s shoulder’s, squeezing the last bit of his energy out from his finger-tips. 

 

Mark can’t help but fall in love for a second time that day. He pulls back for a moment, reveling in the way Donghyuck’s breath hits his cheek soft and heady. Under him, he’s greeted with large brown eyes and long lashes. They’re patient and expecting. 

 

In their childhood, Mark had avoided Donghyuck like the plague on behalf of the later’s entitled disposition, but nowadays Mark realizes that Donghyuck just knows what is his and what will come to him in due time. And who is Mark Lee to keep him waiting?

 

That night Mark reacquaints himself with the taste of honey and warm fingers over his stomach, and in return offers a quiet vigilance in the shape small bruises over Donghyuck’s collarbone. 

  
  
  


When Mark wakes the next morning the bed is cold like Russian winters are. There is no Donghyuck tangled in the sheets or a note to greet Mark when he wakes but there never has been. Donghyuck leaves a part of himself in the smell of his fragrance oil that he dabs at the base of his jaw. Soft, enticing, and mildly woody. It clings to the pillows and comforts Mark throughout the rest of the morning. He leaves a part of himself with Mark in the spilled grains of sugar next to the french press.

 

Mark sets off on his routine of school and volleyball; Donghyuck, no doubt dancing away at that academy until his heart breaks. But at night, Mark will be there to heal it back again. 

 

All in due time. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> (mark calls hyuck) solnyshko - small sun  
> biologiya - biology  
> dusha moya - my soul 
> 
> hi omg this is so dumb but like. im liking the ballet vibes lately so! hey girls!
> 
> i made a twt and cc!  
> [twt](https://twitter.com/6onghyuck) \+ [cc](https://curiouscat.me/nascars)


End file.
